Connections
by sagewolf
Summary: Everyone has their own appeal, unique and inimitable. What it is, and how it attracts, is up to the onlooker as much as the looked-upon. For Xirysa's Senses challenge. Finally finished! Ch 5: Warmth. Second Genre: tragedy.
1. Sunrise

_You can probably tell from the title, but this is the Sight chapter: Jaffar/Nino. _

_Disclaimer: I do not own Fire Emblem or any affiliated characters, places or events. _

**Sunlight**

_by sagewolf_

She was sunlight. Her laugh, her smile, her voice as she chanted a spell. All of them cast light into my mind, my spirit-- my life.

Before I had been a puppet, with no more identity or will than one of Nergal's most basic creations. There had been those who called me his pet murderer, his dog.

I was less than that.

A dog is loyal, wishing only to please its master, unquestioning, remaining true even when tormented, shunned, beaten. But loyalty requires the capacity for treachery; truth requires the possibility of falsehood. I could conceive neither; they were alien, incomprehensible. He had taken me off the streets, before I could remember.

At least that was what he said. Perhaps he had my parents killed the way he ordered hers killed, for the sake of the prodigy among the family. I do not know.

Then, I did not care. However he had acquired me, I was Nergal's. His hound of doom, his silent striker--

His Angel of Death.

I stalked the darkness, bringing those around me into it. Not against their will, of course. I was not so clumsy. They never knew I was there; they had no will, no choice in their fates. Just like me.

Her parents fell the same way, both of them, and the two boys who lived there with them. She wouldn't stop screaming for them. I had never held anything so tiny before. I realize as I remember; then I was younger than she is now. I found a shining metal necklace on the woman's neck, broke the chain and gave it to her, to calm her down.

The blood on my hands stained the chain, remained in the metal, remains to this day. Not her blood. I did not spill her blood.

I was so used to silence and darkness and solitude. She disturbed my world the moment she found herself in it. With her noise, her thrashing, her incessant cries, and the constant gleam of the necklace she would not let go of.

I gave her to Sonia and was done with her. So I was informed, and so I believed. I had new assignments, new marks, new skills to master. There was the Black Fang to penetrate, enemies to dispose of, spies to root out... I forgot the tiny baby who had so valiantly opposed her family's killer.

Opposed, disarmed, wounded-- destroyed. I am not that man now.

I saw her first, grown, with the Reed Brothers. Was she ten? Eleven? It was snowy that day, and the powder collected on her shoulders, her head, her cloak. She would shake her head or shrug, and it would fall in a tumbling, disconnected mass, leaving tiny, individual flakes to sparkle in the strands of her hair and the fibres of her clothes, a glittering halo of light all around her. She looked at me, her eyes bright and eager, full of all the promise her life didn't have, not with Sonia. Not with Nergal.

But she didn't know. Even if she had, it would not have dimmed her sunny outlook. Sonia was cruel to her, taunted her, insulted her, and still, all she wanted was to please her 'mother'. To make her proud. She emulated Sonia, learning magic, begging to serve the Fang, any way she could.

That was when I began to crack. I kept seeing her, and whether Fate brought me to her or I unknowingly sought her out, the crack grew with every laugh, every grin, every time she looked on me, or I on her. I did not seem to change. Not even to myself did I change then.

Yet the capacity for change grew. It grew to the point where I thought. Doubted. Questioned. My master gave me an order--

And I did not obey. I could not spill her blood, could not see it splash on the stone floors of Zephiel's chamber, black and cold.

I fought beside her, against the Fang, against Nergal and his morphs. The enemies fell before me, as numerous as leaves on the trees. If ever I tired, or weakened, I had only to look to where she fought, and her smile, her magic, her strength, would infuse me with new stamina and courage, and I would continue.

I could have continued for eternity. She was my light, my strength. With her near me, I could have gone on forever. I did not think it was love. What did I know of that? It was beyond my understanding. What I had was all I wanted.

I did not think of others. I saw nothing off-putting about the boy. He was kind to her, and he was a mage, like her. Sonia was the only mage she had ever known. The Hurricane she called 'uncle' and knew well; the shaman taught her to read, to decipher the secrets held between the silent bindings of books. What was the harm in a conversation? With the mage, the shaman, the Hurricane? I could not see.

Now I do. For she is my light, my strength. And in growing close to her, they take her from me. She smiles for the boy, laughs at the shaman, her eyes gleam when she looks at Hurricane.

None of them are strong. I could take her back. The boy is young and inexperienced; the shaman is distracted and slow; Hurricane is past his prime.

It would not be hard at all. Yet--

To do that, I would have to take them away from her. That... no. That I cannot do. Not to her.

I cannot bear to spill her blood; I cannot bear to dim her light.

Even if it ceases to fall on me.

-- -- -- (_This was originally a TILDE but FFn killed it. It looked so much nicer too. T.T)-- -- --_

_(For those who don't know: the challenge mentioned in the summary is detailed on Xirysa's profile. Basically, what is required is a five-chapter fic (or five oneshots disguised as a five-chapter fic) focusing on any pairings, with each chapter based around one of the five senses. This was originally going to be a oneshot, but since it fit so well, I'll make it the first installment of my entry. xD As I write, I know what I'm doing for smell and taste, and possibly touch. I actually have Scent written: I just have to let it sit for a few days before I go over it. Now for the original A/N for this oneshot:)_

_This is probably actually the shortest thing I will ever write. (checks: 923 words. Damn right it is. xD) It was my first time at attempting this sort of interior monologuey thing (or any kind of romance), and I don't know why I did it. Just got a random idea on a Sunday night, I guess... sat down with a cup of tea and wrote this all in one sitting. (Then revised it a few days later, but there wasn't much to do.) I actually don't think it's ever said in their supports that Jaffar killed Nino's parents, so that is what is called 'artistic license.' The blood staining the chain of the locket and him seeing her with Lloyd and Linus-- that IS in the supports. _

_Y'know, I actually think this's kinda cool... This is very nearly the kind of stuff I actually like to read, if the angstiness was toned down. Maybe all the 'spiritual' fics I was reading eventually rubbed off on me... hmmm.__ Well, thanks for reading, anyway! _

_sagewolf out. _


	2. Sweet Lady of Violets

_Chapter two: Pent/Louise. The 'scent' chapter. Far, FAR happier than the last one. Kind of. Enjoy.  
_

**Sweet Lady of Violets**

_by sagewolf_

It was always a relief to leave his study and meet her. The study was lined and filled with books; whenever Pent entered it he was practically wading through them. He would not have traded a single one of them, of course, nor could he have abandoned his study of them. Each volume held its own secrets, its own aura of knowledge to divulge and share with him, if only Pent invested the time. And so he did, often neglecting his young family in his studies, and, in a bizarre irony, his student.

He couldn't help himself. All that knowledge, there to be grasped, and so easily! The temptation was too much for him. From time to time, he spent entire days in there, only pausing to call for meals (never to eat them: he was capable of eating and reading at the same time). And yet...

There was something missing from that. Despite the mental exultation he gained from his studies and the wonders he found in them, the air of the study itself always felt a little dead. There was a mustiness in the air that would not be dispelled, no matter how long the window was left open. The scent of parchment and leather and ancient, dry ink, slowly fading away to dust, hung in the air like a malevolent spirit. Eventually, Pent would always have to get up and leave, longing for fresh air, breathable air. His books did not leave with him. Part of that was his fear of what might happen to them-- bugs, dirt, fire, water. Few things other than scholars were kind to books.

But their study also cut him off from the company of his wife. Being in her company was a very different thing to being in his study. To bring the dry dust of his studies into her presence seemed almost sacrilegious. A freshness, a vibrancy seemed to cling to her, perhaps from the scent of violets and roses that clung perpetually to her from her work in the gardens of their home.

It was more than that, though. There was the scent of many more flowers he could not name, and of the grass and soil, and the sweet wood of the saplings she helped to prune in the orchards. On days when she practiced in the archery range, it was the sharp scent of steel from oiled arrowheads, the sweet, subtle odor of the beeswax that kept her bow and strings supple, and the sure scent of the leather of her fingerguards that met him. Over all of it, there was always a light scent of sweat to mark her exertions and her passion. If she had stayed in that day, what he found was the light scent of sweet pea off of her clothes and the dry, fresh scents of the powders and lotions which kept the skin of her hands and face smooth despite her unladylike pursuit of archery and her work around the castle.

No matter what day it was, she always seemed to embody freshness and energy, all the vigor and joy of life itself, only enhanced by her innate sweetness and surety. Her scent was definite, relaxing, unsullied, invigorating, subtle and enveloping, all at once: like her, a thing of contradictions and delightful surprises. It was an expression of the determination and purity that had drawn him to her from the first day he had met her. Ah, he was lucky.

Once he had asked her what he smelled like. She had laughed. He had pressed her, certain that he was as musty and oppressive as the study he encased himself in for days at a time. Half- closing her eyes, she had thought about it for a minute or so. Finally she had told him: brimstone. Brimstone and smoke, from his spell-casting. She had added that it was odd, but that she liked it. It was otherworldly and mysterious, but warm and reassuring; a powerful and solid scent.

There had been a time, though, when she had told him he smelled like sweat and illness. Worry marring her face, she had asked him to take more time outside, eat proper meals, spend time outside his study. Between the words had been the unspoken request, _with me._ What could he do? He did not want her to worry. Besides, every moment he spent by her side was a blessing, from both Elimine and her.

So he lay by her side on the sweet spring grass, gazing up at the clouds, with the warmth of the air, the gentle perfumes of the gardens and orchards, but most of all, the distinctive scent of _her _hovering around him, bringing him peace, contentment, relaxation. He knew it wouldn't last: before long, in a day or so, maybe, he would return to his study and the musty atmosphere of parchment and ink. Such was the course of knowledge and discovery, the course he had long ago committed himself to. But for now-- For now, he didn't dare to let his eyes drop, lest he fall into slumber and miss these few precious moments: the moments which he treasured, and always would treasure.

Lying in the sunshine with his lady wife, all his cares and worries suspended for a day all too brief, the scent of violets and beeswax all around him.

* * *

  
_I think the shorter length works for these, since they have to be so focussed. I don't think any of them will be over a thousand words._

_Looking at the other fics meeting this challenge, this is apparently one of the hardest chapters to get ideas for. Really? I didn't think so: it was the first idea I had after I decided to make Sunlight my opening chapter. Mind you, that may actually have been a bad thing. xD "Lady of Violets" comes from the artbook: trimurti references it in a chapter of "Legion of Honor." (I don't have the artbook. Sadly.) I always liked Pent and Louise, actually. Their character ending I loved; it just sounded so Britishly dry and witty in my head. _

_Next chapter will be Taste. Not long to wait. ...Does anyone have guesses as to what will come up? Come on, I want to know. I'll see if I can't have it up on Saturday: if not it'll be Sunday. I'm spending Wednesday, Thursday and Friday at the Gaeltacht with part of my Irish class, so it definitely won't be earlier. (shrugs) Slán go foill. _

_sagewolf amach._


	3. The Secret Spice

_What else but Taste? _

**The Secret Spice**

_by sagewolf_

Rebecca couldn't name the spice he used.

Whatever it was, it made the food he cooked more enticing than anything she had eaten before. No matter how fondly she looked back on her mother's cooking in Pherae, or the cookies the inn's chef made for her every holiday, his food was just... different. Extraordinary. She had to know what it was. After all, she prided herself on being an accomplished cook in her own right. If she couldn't even pinpoint one simple taste, how could she lay claim to that distinction?

No, she would have to figure it out. If she could, maybe she would be able to cook as well as him, and take his place at the fire more often than she did. He cooked the most often, simply because his food was the most satisfying, the most flavorsome. When the others cooked, it always seemed to lack something-- not to mention some people's simple incompetence with a ladle. Indeed, after that second bout of food poisoning, they had forbidden the tactician from any form of food preparation ever again. Anything the mages cooked turned out as black as the sky on Midwinter's Night. Vaida... well, she certainly wasn't cooking anything, not until they forced her to name the meat she used.

His cooking, though, was above and beyond all of that. Whatever he put in made meat tender and savory, pastry smooth and rich, vegetables crisp and so vibrant they seemed fresh-picked. No matter how strong or subtle the different flavors in a meal he made, they never clashed with each other, never competed or overwhelmed. They blended and danced on her tongue, delightful and extraordinary. More than once she had sat at dinner and forgotten to chew, simply holding her mouthful on her tongue, wondering what it was. What could possibly make the food so good?

How could he surpass the chefs in every inn they visited? They were men who had spent their entire lives at a stove. They actually _had _stoves. He had a mere fire; he was only a knight. Well, maybe not _only_ a knight. She could remember it so well: the first day she'd met him, on his gallant steed, as white as fine-milled flour, thundering down the hillsides to the aid of their village, dispatching dozens of bandits with every sweep of his shining lance. Then she had been bowled over by his bravery, his strength, his unyielding passion.

She paused. Maybe... was that it? Passion? She knew he loved to cook-- maybe a displaced flavor or mismeasured spice simply meant more to him than it did to anyone else. Maybe he was a natural talent, just knowing by instinct what to put in and what not to.

No, that couldn't be it. There was something special in his food. She just knew it! Perhaps he had raised herbs in secret, specially designed for different dishes... but then how would he bring them with him, so far into Bern? It was a long way back to Pherae, and they couldn't be dried. There wasn't any way to keep anything dry on this march. She needed new bowstrings every time they went into a new town.

His voice behind her startled her out of her thoughts: he had something in his hands, no bigger than one of his palms. Standing up put her at eye level with it, and she asked him what it was he wanted, wondering what was in the bundle. She had the answer before he even opened his mouth: it was a pie: blueberry, to be exact. She could taste the rich pastry and the sweet, hot berries in the filling from the vibrant odors landing on her tongue. He'd gotten cream from somewhere as well, to put on it: a fresh, clean taste, as rich in its own way as the pastry. How he had baked it without an oven was completely beyond her, never mind having reached such a level of perfection. Maybe he _was _just a genius.

He held it out toward her: was it for her? It was only big enough for one person. Why had he made a pie only for her? Wasn't Lord Eliwood his liege, the one he was meant to be looking out for? What was so special about her? She took it, managing a confused 'thank you'; he grinned and asked her to tell him if anything could be improved. He was planning to make enough for all the army in a week's time, to mark four months on the march, but he wanted her to have one first. To tell him what was wrong, or if she had a good idea for something else to put in it, or-- He turned red and laughed. Rebecca felt a smile spread across her face as he admitted that he had just wanted to give her something. After she thanked him again, more warmly, he left to check on the camp's supper. Always dutiful.

The smile didn't go away as she sat down, tasting the aromas of his gift on her tongue. A little pie, just for her. She knew how much effort went into everything he cooked. And it turned out he wanted to expend that effort just for her...

Maybe that was the secret, the wonderful spice he used. She broke off a piece of perfectly-baked pastry and held it on her tongue.

Nothing could taste better.

* * *

_...And we descend into the realm of sappiness. T.T You could make syrup out of this: I can't believe I wrote it. Oh well. xD_

_Well, anyway, I'm sure people expected kissing and the tastes of people or something like that. I didn't want to go that way: I wanted to find a more unorthodox approach for this. And the pairing was SO obvious: Rebecca cooks for everyone. Lowen has picnics on the battlefield. And they even have a support and character ending. (Her slightly... inaccurate version of chapter eleven's battle is in that support.) The idea leapt out at me after a few minutes' thought on the subject. _

_This was nearly a VERY dark Miledy/Gale fic. But my idea for Hearing is kinda sad, and I don't really know if I would get Gale or Miledy right. So Lowen/Rebecca it is, and I keep the tone light overall. Errr... kinda. So far. So... guesses for Hearing? That's what's up next. No one guesses. (Hey! Kender! If you're reading this, you can probably guess Hearing. I KNOW IT.) At least one character. Come on! Let's hear 'em! (Couldn't help it... Nor the 'bowled over' line. Sorry. Really. Well... no. Not really. xD)_

_sagewolf out._


	4. Flautist

_Hearing Ho! And no, I did NOT misspell the title. The extra 'a' makes it better. ...Somehow. _

**Flautist**

_by sagewolf_

One of the musicians in the corner of the inn was playing a flute.

From Cass's own limited knowledge, it was a good flute, made of fine wood by a skilled craftsman. It was just too bad the instrumentalist wasn't so skilled. His playing was clumsy and halting, adding silences where notes should have been, missing the beat of the song, turning it in upon itself until what should have been a relaxing sonata was a near disaster, saved only by the harpist, fiddler and pianist accompanying him. That and the fact that the flautist didn't have the tune to play, but a second part. ...Harmony, she remembered. Nils had called that a harmony. Realistically, in this flautist's hands, it was anything but. Even the other members of his group were trying not to wince.

Cass knew. She'd heard a master not so long ago. His fingers had danced lightly over the holes in his instrument, where this one's lurched, a little too late or a little too early, the notes clashing with each other and disrupting the flow of the song. Each time it made Cass cringe, bringing to mind the songs Nils had played for their group.

Now and then, _he_ had seemed out of time with the song too, but the changes he made only enhanced the flow of the music. Every time it had captivated her, so much so that she'd eventually had to ask him not to play during battles, no matter what its effect on the troops was. Not once had she ever managed to break away before the last note faded into the still air. Every single time... she had been content to drift on the music's current for as long as he was content to play.

It had not been the sort of reaction she had expected from herself. She'd never been a musical person; she had neither the aptitude for any instrument nor a voice suited for song. When she had been younger, studying strategy and tactics and terrain and weaponry, the flow of music had passed her by, as if she were in a boat on the surface of a river. Its beauty had not been _completely_ lost on her, but it had never touched her, not once, not really. But then, all the music she had heard had been much like that which she was hearing now: tavern hall music, not without its charms, but incomparable to the product of a master.

And Nils had been a master. His songs had swamped and capsized her little boat from the first note, immersing her in the currents of his songs. Entire orchestras had failed to achieve the simple, pure, enveloping presence that his single flute possessed. Even a short ditty from him during a battle had been enough to persuade a soldier that they could continue on for hours, forgetting exhaustion, illness or any but the most dire wounds. In those instances, it had been a clarion call to the army, the equal of any bright horn.

But it was in the evenings that he had excelled. Then he-- and everyone else-- had been able to concentrate on the songs, and he would produce music to make even Jaffar and Karel stop by his fire and listen. At first, Cass had entertained thoughts of ignoring it, but it had found its way into her. Whether she thought she had the time or not, each night she found herself near him, listening to his songs. All of them were _his_, too, and his alone. He never played a single song she was able to recognize from a tavern or a ballroom. Everything he played came straight from him, from whatever part of him connected with his flute to produce melodies. That part of Nils had connected with some part of Cass she hadn't known existed; hell, _it_ probably hadn't known it existed. A part that heard more than just a tune or a song: heard a sentiment or a story or a memory, safeguarded by notes and silences and carefully kept time.

Eliwood had told her, eventually, that Ninian always danced to her brother's tunes. That came as a surprise. Cass had never seen a single dance. Oh, she may have looked at one, once or twice, just as some nights she looked at the fire or the sky, or at him as he played, the way he bent his head and closed his eyes. She never _saw_ them, though: while he was playing, the music was all that existed. Excluding the world had been his ability alone. None of his songs were played to be half-listened to. They'd grasped her and pulled her in. Even now, the melodies stayed with her, indelibly etched into her brain.

Especially the dance tune. Ah, damn that tune: now it was stuck in her head again and making her foot twitch. Its effect the first time had been far more powerful, and, in her opinion, a deliberate piece of mischief. Somewhere along the route to Bern, Nils had noticed that, of everyone in the camp, Cass--apparently, only Cass--was there for all his songs and performances, no matter what it was he played.

So, one night, he'd played that dance tune for her. He had given it no introduction and had stripped away whatever introduction it may have given itself. Instead, he had gone straight into the leaping, merry tide of the dance, leaving her no defense and no time to become accustomed to the energy of the song. She'd been grinning then, too, when he'd gotten up and played standing right in front of her, jumping around her until she'd given in and danced with him, spinning, leaping, jumping with the enchanting cadence of his music. It was seconds, minutes, hours-- who cared, anyway?-- before she'd fallen down. Her dancing skills were no better than her instrumental ones. Dazed and embarrassed, she'd laughed, softly, then uncontrollably, before she heard his song shudder and stop as he joined in with her, his voice like the peal of bells, rising and falling with hers in a delightful, shared harmony. Of all the time she'd spent with the army, all eight long months, that night survived most vividly in her memory. Bizarrely, she couldn't remember if others had watched or joined in-- only the sound of Nils's laugh and his voice as he apologized for making her fall, and her own muted reply as she brushed it aside, thanked him for the song.

Afterward, Eliwood, his voice uncharacteristically coy, had called it love. Nonsense, Cass had told him. It was just the music. If she'd suspected Nils's secret or known all along, somehow, that he would leave eventually, that had nothing to do with her answer or her feelings: it wasn't Nils, but his art that she responded to. Nothing more, she'd said. Eliwood had listened politely to the lie, heard the truth underneath, and had the tact to remain silent. But then, she hadn't been lying to Eliwood. Lying, yes-- but not to him. She wondered sometimes how a person could be as smart as her and yet still so utterly stupid. Everything was just so damn obvious, seen from the wrong side of time.

And it had been obvious, too. On nights when Cass was unhappy, he had played joyful melodies. When she was fatigued, his song had always lifted and supported her-- as if he had played for her all along. There had always been a warmth in Nils's voice when they'd spoken, so like his sister's when she spoke with Eliwood-- and just as hesitant and unsure. Before she'd met him, her own speech had always sounded a little odd in her ears, as if her voice had been made for shouting, and talking normally softened it too far. A laugh from her mouth had been utterly alien to her. What business did a tactician--a dealer of death-- have laughing, after all? Around him, though, the same laugh sounded natural, just another part of the melody they shared. The song that was theirs and theirs alone.Yes... They'd been close, for that short time, and yet--

...Too late now. What was done was done; what lost, lost. Their friendship remained. Her memories too, for what they were worth.

Cass tilted her head toward the ceiling, fixed it with an unseeing stare, and fell once more into the currents of the music, letting them carry her back.

The only way they flowed.

* * *

  
_Yay! I wrote chapter four, I FINALLY got some form of this bloody pairing down on digital paper, and I got the music plotbunny out of my head! For a while._

_This was actually harder to write than it probably looks-- describing the effect of music was difficult to do accurately. There are times when language lets you down. I've been wanting to do a music-themed piece for a while, but I couldn't make it work until this came along. It was hard to do without any technical terms too. Half the point of this is that Cass knows very little about music, so I couldn't have her going on about crescendo and legato and forte-- indeed, anything technical-- when she talked about Nils's playing. So that's why it's so untechie. (I left the term 'rests' out: that's how untechie it is.) Instead I tried to get across the sense of experiencing music. Ah...I hope I did it well._

_Four chapters done-- or, said another way, 80 of the fic! Only one more chapter to go-- I hope it lives up to standards. Thanks for staying with me-- see you at the end! More guesses-- for touch!_

_sagewolf out_


	5. Warmth

_Well, here's Touch. Last one--hope you like it! _

**Warmth**

_by sagewolf_

Damn, but this island was cold. Matthew wrapped his arms around himself and shivered, casting a dark glance at the pegasus knights. How the hell did they walk around in those skirts without freezing? Stupid Ilians and their stupid frozen homeland. He rubbed his hands together and breathed on them to warm them up. His breath was hot and moist on his skin, and sent tiny wisps of vapour to mix with the mist all around them, but it didn't do much to improve the painful sensation in his fingers. Aah, he had to come up with something to get his mind off the cold!

Leila came quickly to mind. She was never cold. Not her voice, not her body, not her heart-- everything about her was warmth and heat. A part of him protested at daydreaming--he was on a job--but it was swiftly shoved to the back of his mind and told to shut up. He wasn't rearguard just now, nor was he scouting. He could spare a few minutes.

Glancing around to make sure no-one was looking, he slipped a hand into his pocket. His fingers met cold, hard metal, smooth and weighty. He pulled it out, the silver ring he'd bought; one of the few things he'd actually _paid_ for in his lifetime. It was simple, just a plain, unadorned band of bright metal. A smile spread across his face and he flipped the ring in the air, feeling it hit his palm with a thrill of expectation. He'd made his decision-- with any luck, this would be his last mission for House Ostia, and Leila's too. He was going to ask her to leave spying behind and marry him. Ah, yes-- there was the warm feeling, spreading through his body. The thought of spending any time with her was usually all it took. Now he was thinking of spending his life by her side. The Nabata desert couldn't match the heat in his soul, and even this gloomy, misty isle couldn't cool it.

From the first time he'd met her, she'd been extraordinary. She was the best Ostia had. The best spy, the best thief, the best at _every_thing she did. Of course, back then, a rookie like him, full of dreams of grandeur and glory, he couldn't have that. No-one was going to be better than him. So he'd begun to follow her, learning from her, copying her every move. After a few years, he'd been nearly as good as her. By that time, of course, she'd noticed him too. She wasn't the best because the rest of Ostia was incompetent, after all.

Their rivalry had begun with a few quick robberies-- he took her glove, she took his shoe, he returned the glove only to steal its mate the next moment. After that lost its spice, they stole secrets from each other, or one would attempt to trail the other down a corridor or a street without being noticed or shaken. They had bickered and taunted each other constantly back then, but never once had there been any venom in their jibes. Not so strange, really, that their rivalry had changed and deepened, becoming friendship, although they never stopped competing. It kept their skills sharp and their wits ready, after all, when they weren't on duty. That made up for whatever ulterior motives they had, in Matthew's opinion.

They'd sparred as well, with knives or swords. She was surprisingly strong: a blow from her blade managed, on occasion, to knock his weapon from his hand, jarring his entire arm. More than once their duels ended with the point or the edge of her blade against his neck, so sharp it could barely be felt, but still cold, still deadly. Far preferable was the pressure of her other hand, the feel of her firm grasp against his skin. Of course, he won sometimes too, and he'd knock off some cheap joke to make her laugh. The vibrations from her throat would travel up his blade and into his arm, making him shudder and grin without meaning to. Had she ever noticed it? Probably. She noticed everything.

She'd certainly noticed as their relationship began to deepen. The hand that had once withdrawn before the knife did began, instead, to linger; passing her in the corridors of Ostia, he would feel her touch, warm and gentle, on his shoulder or side for an instant. He had been slower. He only began to notice littler things about her, like the smoothness of her fingers or the deliberate, unbreakable lightness of her grip on a knife hilt. If he brushed her arm or grabbed her during a duel, he was always impressed by the resilience and strength of her lean frame, every muscle firm under his grasp. Her hair was wiry but still soft, the end of each strand his hand brushed as he tapped her shoulder sharp and distinct. He'd noticed the little things about her; she'd noticed what he noticed and had known what it meant. When he'd eventually figured it out too, she'd flicked his ear gently, a contact as sudden and unexpected as his realization.

They'd never spoken about it, nor had they gone out of their ways to see each other. A distraction--and that was what such feelings were, in their profession--could mean death to either of them. Yet somewhere along the line, he'd gotten serious. Begun letting his mind wander to her. Started thinking about what it would be like to start a family with her, settle down and abandon his life of danger and trickery. When had it happened? When had he stopped being thrilled by danger and secrecy? Thinking about his job now made him... tired. It was nothing compared to her. This miserable mist definitely wasn't worth being away from his love.

He ran his finger over the ring again; it was covered in tiny beads of water now, and still cold and hard and heavy in his palm. Grinning, he pocketed it again. He'd give her the ring and say it for the first time out loud: he loved her. He wanted to spend his life with her. She-- she would say yes. He'd already seen the answer in her eyes, felt it in her touch, heard it in her voice as she bid him farewell. He shuddered with excitement, the movement dislodging several droplets of water from his hair and sending them trickling down his face.

Hector called him for some reason and he headed off in the direction of the young master's voice, filled with warmth from head to toe despite the cold, surrounding mist.

He couldn't imagine anything which could dispel that warmth.

* * *

_Um. I meant to be happy. I really did. But this was the best idea I had, and I didn't want to end on a dud note. So more sadness. Two out of five happy endings aren't bad, right? Well... nearly two. Okay, fine. Taste was happy. I'm not a romantic. So sue me. xP (Actually, the enneagram says I AM wing-Romantic. But then I read the description and it really meant 'emo'. Does 'romantic' mean 'emo' somehow?) _

_This really was hard to come up with good ideas for. It started off as Heath/tact, but then I put NILS with Cass, so it was almost Priscilla but I couldn't see him pushing her off Hyperion (that's what it was) so it turned into Hector/Farina then Rath/Lyn and so finally you see before you: tragic Matthew/Leila. Nothing else was this annoyingly hard to come up with ideas for. I'm not actually convinced it's up to standard... but it was the best I could come up with. In hopes of making it less sucky, I put in some symbolism. This makes it 'deeper'. (I'm not convinced of that, either, actually... I'm lying anyway. I didn't _put_ it in. It just appeared, and it was blatant enough for me to notice and strengthen it. Normally I couldn't notice a subtext if it hit me in the face with a dead herring. Spot the Irony.)_

_Well, anyway, thanks to anyone who stuck around to read this far. Extra thanks to the reviewers, and to Xirysa for making me write this. Interesting little exercise, wasn't it? I actually think it turned out well, too. (Overall.) Well, onward! To the next fic! Or rather... to my Irish homework and English essay (containing yet MORE death and misery)! ...Agh. _

_sagewolf out._


End file.
